


May They Never End

by great-pan-is-dead (TheCrimsonDream)



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, POV First Person, Present Tense, Vampire Chronicles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:07:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5509628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrimsonDream/pseuds/great-pan-is-dead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The festive season brings out a warmth in Louis which Lestat adores.<br/>Lestat POV on Christmas with Louis. Shameless fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May They Never End

There was a slight shift in Louis through the winter months that went unnoticed by few, but seemed only noted by myself. Christmas, a religious holiday, as ridiculous as it may sound, does not hold much significance compared to what it may have had in the echoes of a mortal life and clinging on to what spirituality we could, but it holds a lot of heart, however beyond it Louis and myself me be. It is something, I think, we both need. And come to desire, as pleasing to the tastes it can be.

It is a shift in him that has his eyes sparkle in all the colours of the season, a subtlety in switching to reading Thomas Hardy and Charles Dickens by the twinkle of strings of lights, and small, more frequent smiles with all the warmth of mulled wine. I had convinced him to remain home; with gentle persuasion and a little less arguing than usual, he agreed. Gracing lavishly decorated- but not too lavishly, delightfully traditional, might I insist- rooms with his presence, curled up in chairs surrounded by small clusters of spiced candles; his own little touch, their aroma dancing through the house. I allowed, eventually, his stacks of books to be left piled around the pleasantly flickering electric fire in the hearth, the damp drying out of them, filling the living room with a musty scent of old paper that was so comfortingly familiar of him.

There is little melancholy in his standing out in the snow with his eyes fixed to the sky; a trace of awe on his face for the simple beauty of watching it fall. And oh, how beautiful he is then, when caught sneaking away from gatherings and out into gentle flurries, between snow and sky. Occasionally he'll invite me without words to walk the streets framed in lights in its velveteen blanket in the small hours of the morning, and we walk happily for hours, the winter nights so long, sometimes talking, sometimes in silence. The winter brings the nights earlier, bringing the carollers singing their chants and hymns still out when dark comes, and I’ll sometimes find him, listening a quiet distance off in the streets, a comfort painted on his face that may be just out of my grasp of understanding. I take peace and much faith in knowing there is little to fret about his disappearances during the period of festivities, as he will not be far; an angel all but wandered to behold the wonders that come from small beckoning, soon to return.  

As softened in his sombre he may be, it delights me to see him more lenient to jokes of merriment. Even, on this particular eve, when ceremoniously crowned with a wreath of fir and sparkling pinecones, went a whole half an hour without protest, until it started raining glitter onto his books. And what amazement glitter and so many lights are to immortal eyes! A thousand gems of colour shattered in reflections on crystal glasses, the air alight in a kaleidoscope of embers, a spectrum I cannot hope to do justice in language. I could watch for hours how the gentle shimmer of fairy lights play on his face, the shadows of his cheeks; dance in the sheen of his hair, the curve of his lips. It is not playful enticing to join me under mistletoe that prompts him to greet those lips to mine however, which is to my mild disappointment, but acts of kindness I manage to shine with in this “time of giving” brings about a certain spontaneity in him. And I try to return them in the adoring way he gives them- softly chaste, and speaking words that were given no voice; _another year after countless before, may they never end._


End file.
